


Hotline Miami: Missed Call

by Castlehearth



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Dystopian, F/M, Hotline Miami 3!? Maybe..., Multi-layered Plot, My First Fanfic, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castlehearth/pseuds/Castlehearth
Summary: Miami, Florida (1995)...Years have passed and your time is long since due. Though fire and brimstone had quenched the ringing rage, the madness drags on. You, in your current state, are the only one of living memory who can set right the wrongs of the past. Whether you choose to act now or never depends on you and you alone. Go forth, now!The line has been on hold for long enough... It's time to answer the call...





	1. Homeward

* * *

**ACT ONE: CALLBACK**

_**1ST SCENE - HOMEWARD** _

* * *

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains: round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

**\- Percy Bysshe Shelley**

* * *

On the 28th of December 1991, a massive mushroom of heat and hell fire scorched the radius of Miami. Miles wide, the blast instantly killed thousands of gazing bystanders who had only stopped briefly on their daily routines to witness the massive sight that covered the sky. Every tree was burnt, every building was shattered and every soul who was unlucky enough to be near the explosion was utterly annihilated. Across the nation, another furious mushroom sprouted, bathing the Hawaiian Islands in a wave of nuclear waste. Further west, another grew from the urban jungle of L.A., destroying the once known city of angels.

The United States was attacked on its own soil once more and was now officially at war with the Soviet Union, under the authority of the new volunteer government that had so recently emerged from an assassination. The promise of a new freedom had brought devastation to America and all over the country, the people cried for war and echoed the chant of liberty. Five years prior, they were admitting defeat and now five years later, the USA was back in arms. Despite such an uproar, nobody had bothered to consider that time itself would be the ultimate judge, or at least, until someone took a stand. However, these things were in the world of life and the world of life, was being surveyed by the timeless realm of the dead.

 

**...**

 

It smelled of death. The entirety of the long and drawn out building reeked of its foulness. The windows around the high walls of the corridor were cracked from within, exposing the black and swallowing void that existed outside. From the walls themselves, sheets of white cloth dangle loosely dripping with age and the blood of the unnamed souls who had been wiped with its fabric. From each side, a river of red was formed, taking the shape of long red carpets that stretched down and around the aisles of wooden pews that sit stationary on the filthy tiles beneath them. The dirt caked white tiles washed by the blood from above.

The pews were sat upon by inhabitants, all of which had been recognized in one place or another by millions of staring eyes to which they themselves have never seen. The exact number of heads was so vast and so lengthy that the building that housed them yawned another half a mile back. Row after row of long wooden seating covered the interior, with each split row holding at least ten souls in each. Situated at the front of the building was a rotten stage with a podium of broken birch and melting candle light.

Standing behind it was the shape of a man, or rather, the body of a man with the mind of a beast. Dawned with a ruined lettermans jacket, the figure stood visualizing the sea before him and occasionally turning to his sides to speak to two other familiar entities who had followed him for years at a time, always critiquing the choices a moral man makes. They, too, had minds of animals and bodies of humans. When he had felt the time was right, the rooster masked figure lifted his hand to the crowds. The inhabitants of the darkened chapel were wrapped in its grave hush and the echoes that rattled the walls and ceiling ceased. A pause that lasted a full minute was broken.

"...And so, it has happened." Richard proclaimed. "The city of Miami has been blown off the map."

The very portly Jake bounced up from the crowd. "Damn the Russians! Damn them for all they've done!"

"You are a fool if you think that the Russians we're the only ones responsible for your pointless death!" The Owl Masked man on the right stage scolded.

The womanly figure on the left turned her horse mask to the commotion. "All of you appear to have no idea about what has happened, don't you?" There was murmuring throughout the pews. "Perhaps, you all want to find out?"

From the crowd, Evan Wright stood up with his notebook. "I just knew that my time would come. Whether I chose what I knew was best for me or not."

I remember that I was in a very similar situation. Only I'm not allowing anyone to know." Manny Pardo answered from Evan's side.

The last thing I remember was the bright light and heat. Shortly after, I ended up here." Beard said from his spot further up.

Richard leaned over his podium and scanned the overwhelming size of his congregation. "You all must be wondering why something like this has occurred. Well, let me tell you the truth."

Jake threw his fist up high in disillusion. "What? The truth you say? I already know what happened!"

"Will you shut up over there! I don't have any fucking clue about what this things talking about!" shouted the tiger masked Tony from across the aisle.

Meanwhile, The Son of the Russian Mafia was contemplating his life decisions in a state of frustration. "I saw the way to truth." He stuttered. "But when I reached out to grab it...it.."

A chuckle sprouted from the babbling mess. "Tell me about it. You were insane back then and you're still insane now." said Mark in his enormous bear mask.

"Don't worry. Boss has always been a bit loud like this." The Henchmen responded to The Fans amazement.

Up further towards the front of the audience, Richter had situated himself comfortably in his place near his mother. Sensing her discomfort in the environment, he moved closer to her and openly offered his own feedback. "If you want to tell us the truth, then I'm all for it. I've got nothing against it at this rate."

Richard griped the sides of his podium. "As you all can see, you are all stuck here. I will not lie to you. This is where you will all end up after you die, which you have."

"So this is it, then." Richter sighed. "All the work we've done throughout our lives, the effort we've put into anything, it isn't worth it anymore?"

"The fortune that I've made is worthless now." The Father of the Mafia muttered. "Why have you brought us here then. Why not be burning in Hell instead?"

Don Juan lifted a finger and sank into her seat on stage. "All of you appear to lack in faith. Your efforts have not all gone to waste. The past has not been wiped away completely."

Almost instantaneously, the rows of people from beyond began to give off a rising vibration. Their voices rose from a bass pitch to a spike of soprano as they threw their hands above high and shouted in one loud cry. "Yes! We want to know! Why have we all become victims of this tragedy!? Why are we here!? Who will avenge our blood!?"

On Richard's left hand side, Rasmus bolted forward in his place. "These fools want to know! I want to know too! Why have I not known about this as well!?"

"…Yes." Richard pondered slowly. "There is still one more. We have been watching this one for awhile now. He is alive in his body but empty in his heart. Let us all watch."

Turning around, the dreaded figure approached a table holding a film projector. With the flick of a switch, the device shot forth a wide beam at the empty silver screen hanging in front of it, emitting a hazy white glow to the material. The movie countdown commensed:

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2...

 

**...**

 

* * *

  **19:30**

**FEBRUARY 19TH, 1995**

**MIAMI, FLORIDA**

* * *

The glowing face of the lunar orb slowly began to peak over the horizon. Even with the surrounding haze, the moon beams pierced through the clouds onto the empty landscape, giving off a ghostly atmosphere to the already ghostly plains. The asphalt that once was a pathway for sports cars and other elegant automobiles now lays half buried under the floating dust. Where trees once drifted back and forth in harmony are now nothing more than a wide expanse of burnt logs. Even the once green grass was no more than shriveled vegetation in the chemically active soil. Four years had past and nothing has changed.

From far off in the distance, a droning buzz could be heard. Eventually growing louder and louder, a red bullet flew through the area, kicking up the settled dust and revealing the cracked road that laid beneath. The sonic force continued its undisturbed travel until a lonely gas station appeared on the horizon. The object stopped and a man enters the building. Unsurprisingly, the entire place was bare, say for a nest of rats who had made a home in one of the cupboards. It felt all too familiar.

Outside the man leaned against the cracked pump, pretending to wait for invisible gas to fill up his tarnished mode of transportation. As a soft breeze began to pick up, he wrapped his arms against his chest and gazed around at the barren wasteland. It was a sight he had grown accustom to after many years alone and now in his eyes was a sort of place that was second nature to him. Finally finished with standing around, he fastened himself to his red bullet and shot off into the dark. His journey was cold and unforgiving but he expected such a climate at this time of year. It really did not bother him one bit.

After another few minutes of travel, he approached a tattered billboard in faded colors. The broken charred wood began to chip away as the wind pushed against it, showing the strength of such a feeble structure. From what the individual could make out, he thought that he could pick out the line:

_WELCOME_ _TO THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF MIAMI!_

Turning to the east, he saw the faint sparkle of light on the edge of the plain. Staring harder, he could make out another light in the shape of a rectangle. Soon he had discovered that going over the hill exposed the skeleton jewel of Florida itself. The faint hint of pink from afar matched the color of his vest and the tiny dots of a buildings lit windows were identical to his battle worn helmet.

"Well, here we are again." Biker sadly murmured. "I haven't seen this place in years. It doesn't look any better than when I was here last."

The rider hesitated for a brief moment, contemplating whether or not he even made the right decision to return. After thinking long and hard, he came to the same conclusion that he had came to back from where he came from. All the events leading up to this moment reminded Biker that he had a job to complete. His objective was unknown but he knew for certain that he had come to the right place.

"Let's get this over with."

Dragging his boots heavily through the dirt, he threw himself back onto his motorcycle. The revving engine sounded across the scorched stretch; it was a stark reminder that he was indeed a lone wolf on a suicide mission. So he drove on, closer and closer to his ultimate goal. The distant towers that used to be multi-million dollar skyscrapers grew larger as Biker drove towards the city limits. From his point of view, he could still make out the lit skyscrapers from the darkened ones along with the fire haze coming from beneath it. At least, he thought it was just fire. Perhaps, a source of warmth in an already cold and unreasonable world.

All this time, his uncovered eye searched for any signs of life that he could find but found none. Alas, he reached a wall that appeared to go for miles in both directions, which forced him to halt at the blocked gate. Taking the key out of the ignition, he looked around at the tops of the barricade. His eye caught two shapes peering over the edge.

"And who do we have here?" The first man questioned aloud. "Another rat from the outside coming to get his hands dirty?"

The second shape followed. "Nah, he looks more like another druggy coming to get a taste of the 'Miami Sunrise', am I right?"

Biker didn't answer, particularly because of the bright light that they were shining down onto his one exposed eye. To be exact, his left eye, was the only one he used for the last few years of his life. Due to his lack of perception, he has become very weary of everything he sees, always suspicious of who is sitting behind him. He frowned in annoyance as the two above him kept their guessing.

"You know what? I'd say he's come to hear the sick tunes. Best music in the world."

"Now that you've mention it, he might be looking for someone special to make his own. There's plenty around here."

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" Biker finally answered in his usual informal tone. "I'm just trying to get home. What's with this gate blocking the road for?"

One of the men was taken aback by the response. After a short rush of laughter, he leaned over the edge to address the wanderer. "Home? You live here? I've never seen you before."

"You sure you're from here, buddy? You look like shit to me."

Growing more annoyed by every passing moment, the man wearing the helmet gripped his fingers tightly together. "Look, I don't have time to play games with you two. Let me pass through so I can be on my way."

The man on the left peered down at Biker suspiciously. "Look what we have here. A smart ass. Perfect. Just what we need." He replied, his voice full of satire.

"Keep talking like that, boy, and we'll make sure that you will be crawling back to the hole you came out of!"

Biker's voice rose, harsh and full of anger. "I've driven more than half-way across this country only to get stuck in front of this gate with you clowns? You can't be fucking serious right now? My patience is running out!"

Noticing a shift in movement from the rider below, the guard on the left pulled uncomfortably on his torn leather jacket. Seeing this, the other man on the right pulled a knife off of his belt. For awhile, the three didn't say a word but the men on the walkway answered first.

"This is our gate. You try to pass through into our territory, you get the pain."

"Exactly, so don't do anything stupid."

All this time, Biker's attention was focused on a small patch of broken wall to the side. It had the words 'Free Entrance' written all over; it was a free passage for a way home. A brief hesitation was followed with the sound of steel being scratched. An old and bloodstained cleaver emerged from the riders back pocket along with three sharp knives. Slowly shifting his eye back to the men above, he faced his legs towards the wall.

"That about does it! I'm getting through this crap one way or another!" he yelled.

The man on the right grinned evilly and showed his knife, accepting Biker's challenge. "We'll see about that. Kill that punk, boys!"

Filled to the brim with adrenaline, Biker bolted to the hole in the side of the wall. The men above ran to the other side and began barking off orders to whoever was on the other side. Once inside, the cleaver and knives came back out, both sets of tools thirsty for blood and shining in the dim moonlight. Spinning around the corner of a structure, his blade met its first victim in over six years. It screamed in agony before collapsing at Biker's boots.

Armed with blunt weapons and gnashing at the teeth with hatred, a good sum of leather jacket wearing thugs emerged from the surrounding darkness. Their faces were covered with deformities and scars from years of exposure to the elements around them. For all that Biker knew, they must have lost their ability to reason as they seemed to be leaking at the lips and growling with death threats. In a matter of seconds all of them were lying limp in the dust, their crimson fluids absorbing into the parched earth. A shuffle was heard from behind; a fat mans body falls with a knife to the skull. A goon armed with a chainsaw pounces; he falls in a pool of blood. The count climbs and the screams relentless.

Biker advanced deeper into the compound with his eye sweeping the darkness for potential targets. He couldn't help but stare at the towering skeletons that dominated the skyline in the distance. The tallest of the few that were visible to him was bare and coated by thick rust that masked its white marbled face. At one time it used to be a marvel of modern Miami, a gem to one's eye whoever saw it at night as it glowed among the others. Now it was nothing more than a shadow of its former self; it truly was a reminder of the times that humanity was living in. An achievement that is now nothing more than a construct of the past. It hurt that such beauty did not survive the blast.

Before Biker could even speculate the display further, a heavy force plunged him down. The snarling of a hound was attempting to bite away at the glass that shielded his face, barking all the while to those around it to come forth and claim their new prize. The roaring bark became a weakening whine as the steel sliced the dog from below and the beast was thrown aside. In almost a second after the duel, gunfire rang out across the open yard. The wooden doorway in front of Biker smashed open and the dimly lit hall was filled by panting and footsteps.

No matter which way he went, he found death waiting for him. It seemed almost as if death was on a mission of its own to collect Bikers soul. He was long since due and his bluff back in '91 was enough to make even death impatient. Coming down the hall were rows of leather jacket men and their savage hunger for killing. Busting into a nearby room, Biker was met with a blank wall. No way out, no way to cheat death again. The game is lost and with it, a bullet to the shoulder. As he felt the blows to his un-cushioned helmet and exposed stomach, more gunfire could be heard. All at once the sounds grew quieter and his vision went black. At that last moment, he desperately pleaded for death to give him rest. His wish was denied.


	2. Open House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up from the battle the night before, Biker finds himself in a whole new world. Post-nuclear Miami may not be as beautiful as he had previously remembered it to be but it's still just as troubling.

* * *

_**2ND SCENE -** _ _**OPEN HOUSE** _

* * *

**6:30**

**FEBRUARY 20TH, 1995**

**MIAMI, FLORIDA**

* * *

When he opened his eyes, Biker was met with darkness that sweltered around him. After a moment of adjustment, he realized that he was lying down on a bed. The blow he had taken was enough to cause him to pass out rather than pass away as he had hoped for. This stark reminder brought a hint of annoyance to him as he turned his head to the right and found himself staring at a man sitting near his bedside. The man at his side appeared much older than he was, hovering around his mid-50s, for his dark hair was beginning to grow hints of grayness. He was dressed rather well in a nice set of clothes and a pair of nicely shined shoes, which glowed from the light coming through the window.

His face had a certain appearance to it that reminded Biker of someone he saw once a very long time ago. It was while he was traveling on his motorcycle across the Midwest, around Oklahoma to be exact. It was in a small bar at a rest stop where a man just like this was bashing billiard balls across the green playing field. Biker remembered that the guy was cheating, primarily because of the way he angled the cue just right to where every strike was a precise shot. Nobody caught him and he won the game, just as Biker had finished his final pint before passing out on the floor of the establishment. A distant voice broke the memory.

**"** So, you are awake. That's good." the man answered. "I would have thought you were a goner for sure."

Biker emitted another groan. "Gah...What the hell happened? Where am I? Who are you?" Why am I-"

**"** Take it easy, my friend. You must take things slow."

The aching in his head made Biker feel ill. The urge to pass out came and went every few seconds. "I haven't felt this fucked up since my last hangover. … What has happened to me?"

**"** A question that I want to find out myself." The man chuckled. "What were you doing all by yourself in the middle of Sharks territory? Everyone in Miami knows that."

"I didn't know that." Biker gestured. "I just got here a few minutes ago and then I broke in. All I wanted to do was get into Miami with as least trouble as possible."

The man turned his head towards the curtain closed window. He pulled one of the curtains to the side, allowing a beam to settle across his face. "Good news for you, my friend. You are in Miami and you are safe. That is all I'm concerned about at the moment. Plus, you've been out for a few hours, not minutes."

The strangers response shook Biker. Out for hours rather than a few minutes. Judging by the light that was coming through the slit, he could tell that it must of been a new day, a bare minimum of ten hours had already gone by. "Damnit. Thanks for doing that, Mister…"

**"** Just call me Laszlo. Welcome to my home. Make yourself comfortable, Mister…"

**"** Oh, don't worry about me. Just call me whatever you wish."

The man, now known to Biker as Laszlo, raised his eyebrows to the answer. "Very well then. Feel free to adjust."

At last, Biker managed to lift himself up off his back. He felt older already knowing that he was. His age came to mind: 35 years. The last time that he was in Miami, the last time he had since put a blade into ones body was six years ago at the age of 29. His hair was long but nowhere near as frazzled as it was in 1991, yet the band that held most of his blue mop together was still holding together just perfectly. In addition to a recently trimmed blue goatee, he still bared a familiar scar across his left cheek that hadn't aged since his temporary disappearance. His pale and dirty skin made him feel uncomfortable lying on top of what seemed to be new sheets. Even after neglecting himself for so long, Biker was still concerned about his own self image. His train of thought was interrupted by Laszlo opening the window.

"You know what time it is?"

"6:30 AM." he said back. "You slept all night long. Those bastards beat you good."

In addition to the alien atmosphere that he found himself in, the guilt of debt began to creep onto Biker's shoulders. Ever since he began borrowing from people, Biker had somehow been able to pay them back in one way or another. In a scenario such as this, it made him wonder what he could give Laszlo in return for making such a sacrifice of going through harms way to get him to safety. Clearing his throat, he slowly rose to his feet.

"Don't want to look like an asshole after the help. Is there anything I can give you?" Biker asked shyly.

"Don't worry. I'll think about that." Laszlo replied in a reassuring tone.

The hours drifted by and every passing moment amazed Biker as he looked out the windows of Laszlo's house. In the streets below, he saw people walking, strolling, running, jogging and sitting. The bomb affected everyone of physically appearance, which showed in their abnormal lacerations and their eyesore blemishes. Aside from the normal cuts and horrorshow blisters, most people acted just like any normal human being would. Whether this meant that humanity was still redeemable was yet to be answered. For Biker, however, it made him feel confident in his own appearance knowing that he was not the only freak on the streets.

When the burning sun began to set upon the hazy irradiated horizon, a fierce orange glow illuminated off the cityscape. Every building that had glass still in it shone blindingly towards the west and provided a sparkle for miles in its direction. Where it was darker, neon lights buzzed in harmony providing the lowlife in the understory with a lit pathway. The steel and concrete canopy of Miami too glowed with neon and white lights, providing every low rooftop or building face with a glow of its own. Life also buzzed from within the structures as lamps shined out of each windows gaping mouth.

When the sun was gone and another day ceased from existence, the blue haired wanderer found himself still looking out the house windows, hypnotized by the bussling that came from the world around him. A nuke dropped no more than four years prior and society, though not completely the same as before, has somehow gotten itself to stand on its own two feet again.

"You're right." Biker said while he inspected the canvas outside. "My God, this place hasn't really changed much at all."

"Everything is mostly the same. Life here is just a bit difficult these days that's-"

From across the living room, the sound of a telephone came into earshot. For no reason, Biker froze in place and turned his attention to the disturbing sound emitting from the table. Laszlo dismissed himself to answer it and Biker gave a sigh of relief knowing that he didn't need to pick it up. When he turned to face his acquaintance, he noticed that the man was silently staring at his feet intensely as if he was taking in every single word being uttered to him on the other end. Once finished, Laszlo slowly walked back to his previous spot in the living room.

Biker's burning curiosity came to a point where he could not contain it any longer. "Hey, who was that on the phone?" he asked.

**"** Just some personal business." Laszlo coughed. A few seconds passed and he turned his attention back to his partner. "You know what, there is something you actually can do for me."

Biker raised his eyebrows. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

"See there's been some troublemakers that have been giving me a lot of hassle lately. Perhaps you could help me deal with them?"

The rider rotated his one visible eye towards the ceiling in thought.

"I guess."

He pondered for another few seconds. "I don't usually do favors but since you've helped me, I don't see why not."

Laszlo could tell by Biker's posture and choice of words that he was nowhere near interested in what the phone call wanted him to do. Much like a father, he crossed his arms sternly and stood straight up towards the blue haired mercenary. "Shouldn't be too hard for you since you nearly killed that entire gang of Sharks yesterday. The address is 32nd Whiffle Tree Ave."

"Are you giving me a ride?" Biker asked.

The older man pointed his thumb to the front door behind him which was chained defensively by an array of locks. The door resembled a rectangular safe protecting the federal reserve rather than a warm entrance and exit. "Your motorcycle is out front. You can thank me later. Do this for me and we will be even."

Grabbing his helmet off the small table near the door, he entered out into the winter evening. His motorcycle started with a dangerous growl and sped at high speed down the wide street. The entire ride was a rough one. Without a general knowledge of the roadblocks, Biker kept on meeting dead end after dead end, rubble heap after rubble heap and broken car wall after broken car wall. What was first a splendid little ride turned into a highway nightmare. To make matters worse, he nearly got killed while driving through an open gun fight on the boulevard and ran into traffic on the busy main drag. A full two hours had blown by before he arrived at his final destination, thirsty now for whatever blood he can slurp up.

Wasting no time, he bursted through the weak door and knocked over a goon in the process. After a swift throat slice, he turned his attention to the remaining thugs in the house who all wore the same leather jackets that had haunted him the night before. In such a condensed place such as this, breathing space was a rare commodity to come by. On the next floor, Biker found this out in the worst way possible. He soon found himself holding back the force of two other men while retrieving his cleaver from the stomach of a fat man in front of him. He grunted before throwing them off of his back and onto the floor. In one fast swoop, he slit them just as easily as the last. The rest of the house was cleansed in a very similar manner; it wasn't a very large house at all.

Walking out into the night, Biker was unable to shiver. The blood that he was dripping with felt unusually warm on his flesh which made him feel sick at the thought of it. The only real thing he was able to clean was his hands as he couldn't stand the thought of ruining the rubber handlebars. Dawning his helmet, he forked his keys into the same old ignition. Before returning back to Laszlo, he decided to stop at the shore for a quick dip but upon realizing that the bay was contaminated, he cursed aloud. He concluded that his shower for that night was in the blood of a number of corpses rather than a stream of hot water.

"Did you have any trouble with those thugs back there?" Laszlo asked curiously.

Biker nearly choked on his own saliva upon hearing the question. "Nope. Just like the old days. They never seem to notice until it's too late."

He knew that it was a lie.

The older man stroked his beard and laughed with his thick accent. "At least it'll give them something to worry about for the time being. Those boys have been doing nothing but sparking up conflict for the longest of time."

After an awkward silence, Biker changed the subject. "To be honest, I'm surprised that there's an entire population of people still living here, let alone a weak gang in a crack hideout."

"It's a long story as to why this city still is the way it is." Laszlo concluded with a yawn. "However, I'm quite tired for that sort of talk. I'm going to go get some rest now."

"I won't be too far behind you. I wore myself out from tearing that shit up earlier."

Laszlo turned to go but stopped in his steps lifting a finger.

"Oh! Before I forget, my friend. I might not be available for the next few evenings. Do you mind watching the place when I go out?"

"I don't see why not." Biker said. Another lie.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me knowing my house is in good hands."

With that, the owner retired for the night. All alone in the quiet living room, the blue haired mercenary could not help but feel a burning flare inside of him. He brushed the hair away from his right eye only to have it fall back over it a moment later. He scowled at his red stained vest and torn jeans before inspecting the shine of his meat cleaver.

"Why does he have to be Russian?" The reflection echoed back. "It's like goddamn '89 all over again."

His hand reached to his side and switched off the last electric light in the house. He was left with one candle glowing on the metal coffee table. A foreign pain fell upon the mans heart as he blew it out, demanding his brain to rest and for his dreams to keep him occupied until the sun rose in the morning.


	3. Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time continues, Biker begins to fall victim to his old habits. Eventually, he finds himself commiting the sins he had sought to escape from just to keep himself entertained.

* * *

_**3RD SCENE - VISITORS** _

* * *

  **20:00**

**FEBRUARY 26TH, 1995**

**MIAMI, FLORIDA**

* * *

 There were times during the day where Biker would often forget what day it even was. Was it because there was no real working clock to tell the time? Was it because the overall environment seemed to be frozen in time? Either way, he seemed to forget often. Perhaps it was because of how slow life was dragging by for him. His taste for adventure was being drained away with each passing day. Every hour of hard labor that passed made him feel more like a poor man slaving away on a farm rather than a thrill seeker on a mission. The atmosphere was obnoxious and the burning irradiated heat seemed to only worsen the effect on his head. He began to wonder more than even how anyone could survive in such a hospitable place.

For the past five days, Laszlo would leave every night. He ordered Biker to keep a watchful eye on the house fearing that thieves were going to steal things from the property. To Laszlo, his home was his only piece of worth and to have it spoiled would devastate his wealth. It was his castle and because of that, it stood as a symbol for his status. To Biker, it was simply a house. Granted, it was a well kept house to be living in after an atomic blast but it was still nothing more than a plain, old and faded brick house. Two stories, with lots of windows circling around it. All of which was surrounded by a relatively sturdy wall and barbed wire lining.

One night, Biker found himself alone again. It had been about an hour and a half since Laszlo's usual departure and already, boredom was beginning to settle on him quickly. The air around him was too thick for his liking and the stale odor of smoke from outside increased his bitterness.

"Man, I'm bored again." He said sprawling his feet out. "I knew that I should have said no to him."

The sound of a ringing telephone came from the other side of the household. The sound was all too familiar to Biker's ears and it caused him to freeze in the position he was in. When the ringing finished, there was no reply back.

"Wonder who that could be?"

What must of only been a few seconds felt like a century as he got up and walked over to the machine on the table. Hovering above it for a brief moment, he pressed the response button and clutched his fists tightly. He hated when his hands were sweaty and this was one way to make them just that. The machine began its play back.

*You have one new message.* *BEEP* "Hi, it's 'John' from 'Rad-Be-Gone'. I was instructed to inform you about the radiation scanning of your house and need you to sign some documents for confirmation. We are at 10th Westmont Street. Be sure to drop in so we can make your glowing desires come true." *CLICK*

"Impossible!" Biker bluttered out. "How the hell is this still going on!?"

A hush fell upon the empty household. "There's nothing to do here anyways. I can't believe I'm going to do what I'm about to do right now."

Two choices pressed down upon his shoulders, presenting themselves favorably to his eye. One option was to stay behind, the other would be to go where the call instructed him to go. Knowing that it was near impossible to change old habits, he placed his cracked helmet over his head and walked out of house. His bike, scrapped and tearing of its original red paint job, sat just near the exit to the walled compound. The purr of the mufflers filled Biker with the momentum to get on the road as soon as possible.

The adventure, much like the previous, was no dream ride. At a broad intersection, the motorcycle began to give off a horrific rattle before ceasing to work altogether. Nearly falling off of his vehicle, Biker fastened his helmet and started to diagnosis the problem. He burned his hands while fiddling with one of the wires, which filled the sky with words that only a person like himself would use on a daily basis. When he thought that he had it, the rider turned his keys in the ignition. Then he did it again. And again. Still no avail.

"Startup, you piece of junk!" He growled. "I've got places to be right now!"

Suddenly, a new sound came into earshot. From the corner of his one visible eye, he thought he could see a shape move behind him on the road or rather, two shapes. The crawling hulks were revealed to be two beaten DMC-12's putting in a single file line up to the mouth of the intersection right next to Biker. The closer they approached, the less patience Biker could muster. The sound of a window sliding down could be heard behind him.

"Nice wreck there, Asshat. Taking it to the scrapyard or something?" Said a male voice from within the first DeLorean.

With a huff from his nostrils, Biker slowly rose and unsheathed his cleaver from a bag on his motorcycle. As the pestering insults continued, the cleaver kept rising into the air until it met the solid body of the vehicle. The ear bleeding sensation of metal scratching the side of the car was all that was needed to trigger the driver and their passenger. As the cleaver slid off the edge of the rear, the doors of the first DeLorean flung up on both sides to reveal the one's from inside. Content with his work, Biker casually stepped aside.

"What the hell are you doing, you freak!?" Wailed the male driver getting out.

"Oops. Sorry that I ruined your tin can." Biker voice jabbed.

The driver was a guy in his mid-20s wearing a familiar looking leather jacket and back patch. His shoulder length hair was a sad excuse of a post apocalyptic fashion statement and his face was decorated with a number of cuts from what must have been a series of bad brawls. He was not very big, which gave Biker a sense of relief. The passenger was a female in her mid-20s as well, say she looked more mature in comparison to her partner. In addition to the weakly blotted makeup and eye-liner, she wore a tore leather jacket and a skirt of cheap leather. The most striking feature of her character was her mouth as Biker would soon come to find out.

"Are you looking for trouble, punk?" The female asked loudly.

Biker pointed one of his knives at her face. "Watch it, babe. You're the one asking for trouble."

She retreated to her companions side and waited for his comeback. "No, you watch it, pal. You better skedaddle before I shove my foot up your sorry little ass."

This line alone was enough to make Biker grin. At last, he was faced with an actual challenge. It was at this time that he felt young again and decided to revel more in his state of gloat. "Really? How about I just slit your throats while you're at it." He said lifted his frightening utensil. "Your DeLoreans are nothing but a sorry excuse for a sports car anyhow."

Taken aback by the blow, the female stomped her foot down. "Better than your shitty bike!"

"Shut it, Judy!" Snapped the male rival. "Let me handle this please." He stood firmly in place and stared straight into Biker's smug glare. "You better watch it, buddy, or else it'll be more than a couple stitches."

Biker glanced at the DeLorean in the back and it's crew members prepping themselves for a possible fight. A shock of reason ignited inside Biker's mind and he soon found himself lowering his weapons. "How about next time you don't judge somebody just on the thing they ride with."

"Let's get out of here." The young man walked back around to his door and looked back at his blue haired opponent. "…You mess with one shark, you mess with all of us."

Nobody said a word after the dispute. Soon, the two DeLoreans were only a speck of red lights down the road and Biker found himself alone again.

"Mess with all of you, huh? We'll see about that."

Noticing a small band of bystanders watching him, Biker returned to his faulty bike. There was no time for quarrels and no time for disputes. He had things to do and places to be with only a short amount of time to complete them. It was not long before he found himself speeding down the road again to his destination from the phone message. When he arrived, Biker grabbed his trusty tools and charged through the front doorway like he had done with countless doorways prior. Leather jackets were soon falling to the ground in a bloody heap and the sound of gunfire in the halls brought everyone into the fray.

The situation intensified once Biker reached a narrow hallway only to meet a wall of lead flying in his direction. With his heart thumping in his eardrums, he peeked around the corner to see two machine gunners hiding behind two tables that blocked his path. How was he going to get past such a dangerous obstacle? He had only a few knives to chuck and they were hiding behind thick cover. The shattering of a door on the other side of the room gave him the path out, along with slicing another unlucky target in the process. He bolted down the hall and swiped the heads of the gunners clean off their shoulders. By the time that most of the hideout had been cleared, Biker's entire front was caked in red and his arms were tired of swinging. His lust for blood had been quenched for the time being.

There was only one more side room that he had not checked yet. Cautiously opening the door, he found himself staring at the same delinquents from earlier, crouching at the end of the room in terror.

"You! You did all this!?" The man gasped in genuine shock.

"The address I got so happened to lead me to your little hideout. How convenient." Biker replied from behind his glass covering.

"Stay away! Please d-don't hurt us!" The girl beside her partner cried holding him tight.

"We're really sorry, Mister. Please. We were just joking around that's all."

Biker inhaled aggressively. "Sure you were. You bastards make me sick."

Seeing that the bloodied riders patience was nearing its limit, the man raised his hand in surrender. "Look! We can make a deal! We leave you alone if you don't hurt us! It's fair for everyone!"

All the bitterness from earlier had melted away to show his real weakness behind his hardened face and tattered coat. Biker was silent, his head full of decisions.

"Come on, dude. Just let us go. I don't want you hurting my girl. She's got nowhere to go and she needs protection."

Tears were falling down the young woman's burning cheeks. "I- I'm scared, Johnny!"

"Please…" Johnny begged.

A sigh hummed from inside the turquoise helmet. "You're both a bunch of young spoiled brats but I'll leave you be if you stay out of my path."

"Y-yeah yeah. Deal, deal. We're all good." Johnny confirmed.

The two remaining survivors, Johnny and Judy, were part of what Biker now knew as "The Sharks", the super gang that Laszlo told him about days before. Their size and quality of weapons proved that they were a force not to be reckoned with and their overall size was more than that of a drug den. The same leather jacket wearing, DeLorean driving and mean spirited army of thugs were now a primary icon to watch for on the streets. Their ideals are that of anarchists but with the formation of fascists. Out he went, dripping in crimson liquid and tired as a laborer at the end of their shift, onto his bike and back to the house to get clean before the owner could return first to open the door.

Later that night, the two mates found themselves dining in a rundown yet quaint eatery by the waterfront. The night sky was filled with stars that glimmered against the black void, all thanks to the lack of light pollution to fully mask its beauty. The crescent moon hung motionless in the black background, illuminating the crashing waves that were baptizing the parched shoreline sands. In the distance a few lighted towers shimmered; they were the last of the luxurious resorts still teeming with life in South Beach. Beyond that layed the radioactive oceans and beyond that laid the unpredictable, a thought that no one in Miami could imagine.

"You look a little tired." Laszlo finally said. "What's bringing you down?"

Biker's gaze was broken by the question. "To tell you the truth, I'm just really bored doing this whole house watch thing."

The older man across the circular wooden table looked out towards the bay. "I see. I need someone to keep an eye on things while I'm away. Usually I have to trust the locks but I feel much safer knowing that I can go places without break-ins."

"Where I came from that stuff happened all the time."

"Miami and the desert are not very different the more you think about it." Laszlo said. "Looting, stealing and murdering happens here every day."

"Just like old times. Shit never changes." Biker shivered, his gaze retreating back out to the dark horizon.

A random thought came into consideration. The water by the shore was unclean yet seemed to look as crystal clear as the night itself. The combination of both the sticky air and leftover traces of human blood on Biker's flesh weighed him down. How refreshing it would be to leap from his seat, toss aside his clothes, without a hint of embarrassment from the eyes around him, and jump headlong into the sea for a swim. Such thoughts, however, were nonsense to him. Yet, in the deepest recesses of his mind, Biker kept reciting a line from a story he read long before. Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.

"Right. It's getting really late. I suggest we get back as soon as we can."

After scratching his blue mop, Biker fitted his cracked helmet onto his head. "I'll lead this time. I remembered the streets we took to get here."

Taking one more glance out at the bay, both men couldn't help but to wrinkle their chapped lips at the dying waves. They were both thirsty, perhaps for the same reason.


	4. Uninvited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Biker's newest assignments sends him on a journey into the madness of Miami's night life. Amongst the music, the lights and the bloodshed, Biker meets someone who will change the way he see's things forever.

* * *

_**4TH SCENE - UNINVITED** _

* * *

  **20:00**

**FEBRUARY 28TH, 1995**

**MIAMI, FLORIDA**

* * *

 If there was one thing Biker knew he was missing, it was that of a woman. For about five years, he had been stripped of any and all close female company and it was beginning to drive him completely mad. Back in 1989, he used to have the opposite sex in his apartment all the time, coming and going whenever and for whatever reason they pleased. While many back then would have labeled Biker as an addictive womanizer, he would often bask in the glory of such controversy. The last thing that was on his mind was marrying one woman alone and then having to deal with her nonsense for the rest of his life. Why stick with one when he can have them all? A woman of that sort was not his responsibility nor his concern.

Even to this day, he still held that same philosophy in his mind. Sitting on the same couch as before, he began to picture the woman of his wildest fantasies. The dream was abruptly shattered by the ringing of Laszlo's phone. Back to reality. Back to watching the property. Back to a boring life of tiresome duties.

"As I expected." He murmured while rolling his eyes.

Biker clumsly rose from the ruined furniture and treaded across the cold wooden floor. When the ringing ended, he hovered over the machine and pressed the replay button with his sore finger. An edgy crackling sound opened the outdated playback.

*You have one new message.* *BEEP* Hi, it's 'Kate' from Hotline Miami's dating service. We have set up a date for you this evening. She'll be waiting for you at Southwest 53rd Place. As usual, make sure you wear something fancy. *CLICK*

It was at this moment that he wondered whether the phone machine had been reading his mind the entire time he was lazing around. It was too close of a call to be a coincidence.

"Date? What date!? I never wanted a date!?"

Though he didn't have immediate access to the time, he could tell that the hour it was in a place like Miami was not a time for a lonely girl to be wandering around by herself. Putting aside the source of the call, Biker knew that he was expected to complete another job. As he placed his helmet over his head, he tried to close the door behind him. It was having a very hard time moving back and forth and Biker thought that he would not be able to close it. With one foot inside the house and the other outside of it, he pulled the door shut with all his strength. Cussing up a storm in his mind, he flew down the road towards his next destination.

Upon arriving at the address, Biker stopped his bike to listen out for anyone nearby. Much to his surprise, he heard the sound of loud musical beats in the distance. Walking around the corner, he found himself staring at an old ruined villa with colored lights flashing from the windows. Suddenly, his sour mood lightened up.

"Is that coming from the address?" He thought to himself. "This may be legit after all."

He looked down at his greasy hands and shabby attire. A woman may be waiting for his grand appearance and he was dressed like a train wreck. Granted, he had bulked up more in exile and he had recently shaved the sides of his face to keep just a trimmed goatee, but he still felt like a slob with his shaggy hair and ugly cheek scar. Eventually, Biker thought nothing of it, for nobody really cared for their own looks anyways. Cautiously he rose up the front stairs and pushed open the front door.

Nearly falling over when entering, the blue haired rider was blasted away by disco music. With the blarring tunes filling the house along with the dancing people in all of the rooms, Biker ascended up to the second floor. The smell of booze and raunchy sweat tainted the dark rooms, each filled with an assortment of rainbow flashes, electric dance floors and rotating disco balls. Navigating around a maze of head high box stacks, Biker bumped into a room bathed in a sickly green glow being supervised by a hardy man on a couch and two men passed out on the floor.

"What is up, my good man?" He croaked. "You look like you just walked straight through traffic."

Biker couldn't resist the urge to clench his lower jaw. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen, you know of a girl who's waiting for me?"

"Boy, there are tons of women here. I wouldn't be able keep track of all of them even if my life depended on it."

The rider nearly threw his arms into the air and turned away. "Great. I was supposed to meet a girl here and now I have no clue where she is."

The man leaned over and gave off a buzz of enlightenment. "Actually, there was one girl that was here earlier that I remember seeing." The sound of this made Biker swivel back in his previous direction."Pretty thing. Best looking lady in the whole party. A few men in big uniforms came and snatched her up. I couldn't do anything about it."

"Uniforms? You mean like the cops?" Biker asked praying for an answer different from the one his head.

"They were no policemen as far as I could tell. They looked more like army men."

He was taken aback by the answer. The military, in Miami? Possibly. But why would it take so long for them to come and help? A new thought found it's way onto Biker's tongue. "You mean you didn't even try to ask them why they were here?"

The hardy man took another purple green pill, broke it in two from the pile and popped it into his mouth. "I didn't want to get off this sofa. It's just so comfy and the pills were just too strong. I tried but I couldn't, you dig?"

"I say that you are a worthless slug, that's what I think." Biker shouted at the figure tripping on the couch. "Did you even hear what they said? Where they were taking this chick to?"

Another few passing seconds dragged by before the heavy set man answered the question. "Ahhh… That I do remember. They said something about some stripper nightclub place in Miami Beach. 111th Collins Avenue was the address if I am right."

"Might be right? You're just as useless as you look. Is that all you're gonna say?"

Knowing all too well that he wasn't going to get another suitable response, the rider turned to leave. After using more brain power to move his mouth, the man spoke up loudly.

"Leaving already? Come on, have a beer and make yourself at home. Dance all your worries away."

Those words alone made Biker turn back and wrinkle his face with suspicion. Any and all trust between him and the man on the sofa had diminished. "I don't drink anymore." He ended.

Out in the hall of the villa, Biker made his way to the staircase leading down to the first floor. For the remainder of the song, he sat on the steps and watched the partiers as they shook with glee, unaware of anything else that was around them. They appeared almost like zombies, mindlessly shambling about to the rhythm of the tunes, high on various drugs and drunk on various alcohols. They didn't care about a thing in the world besides what they were thinking about at that very moment. The lyrics of a once enjoyable song for Biker slowly became more meaningless as they concluded. This is what the human race has become.

The trance ended when the house grew silent over the break of the record and it's flip over. The sound of the needle hitting the backside of the next vinyl over the stereo started up a new song. The mood was lowered by the new tune but the brain dead dancing carried on. Finished with spectating the obsessed crowd, Biker's curiousity lead him into a room at the end of the hall blocked by stacks of boxes.

The chamber was dark and the dusty equipment hadn't been touched in years. The amount of webs were in no shortage and the spiders were right at home. To the side, Biker found a dirty mattress with a folded paper on top. A map, just what he needed. His joyful grasp was short stopped by the sight behind it. Laying side by side were two rubber masks; one a horse, the other a rooster. The two were facing one another in a silent staring contest not minding at all the visitor that was looking at them. It made Biker feel uneasy inside, seeing both of the masks that close to touching one another in a bond of webs.

"I don't like what I'm seeing here..." He thought.

Grabbing the folded map, he rushed out of the house and slammed the door behind him. In the dark, he started his bike and went on his way with the end of the song fading with him. The ride over to Miami Beach was more calming than what he had anticipated. As he zoomed past various moving vehicles and burnt palm trees, he pulled over halfway and turned back to get a glimpse of Miami from afar. Most of the skyscrapers were empty black monoliths towering over the city ruins but the one's that were glowing with life appeared like shining jewels against the star background. The fact that people were still alive in those unstable structures seemed boggling. The same went for the much brighter Miami Beach with it's neon illuminating resorts. While it was smaller, it appeared as if there's was more life there than from Miami itself.

Sitting snugly on his left was another city; one of hollow containers and vacant cranes. Dodge Island and the Port of Miami sat pitch black in the irradiated bay. From what Biker could make out, he couldn't see any lights or any movement, which made him wonder about the cities trade. How did Miami even get money? In this case, they didn't. The lack of any real outside interactions meant that Dodge Island didn't need to be worked on and such a thing was fact when one see's the number of unoccupied freighter's and cruise ship skeleton's that were settled by it's shore. The last thought about it than ran through Biker's head was whether or not there was any substance within it's core. Likely not.

The south end of Miami Beach was as promising as Biker had expected. While it's citizens ran wild on their own explorations, the armed sat by and waited for any trouble that might spring up. Pulling his motorcycle into an alley across the street, Biker made his way to the front face of the buzzing building in front of him. Just by inspecting the front, he knew that it was the nightclub that the man mentioned. Bashing through the flimsy wooden doors, Biker pounced onto the man on the opposite side. After slicing his throat, Biker noticed that the guard standing by was wearing a full blown uniform. Jumping up to engage two more, he noticed that they wielded the same uniforms.

Now dead on the granite carpeted floor, Biker observed the three identical corpses. Their black and grey vested chests were running over with red while their dark gray pants oozed with a similar color. The faces were half covered by futuristic looking helmets with a built-in red eye visor, all fitted together with a disturbing pink logo on the helmet's front. Three of the same agents laid dead. Three strikes slashing through a circle on all of their headgear. These were the soldier's that the man warned Biker of back at the villa and seeing them with his own eye now, he regretted not taking him more seriously. They weren't some street gang either but rather a full blown army styled force.

The fight up the three levels of the building was a skull splitting headache. The armored troopers and the seizure lights were a horrible mix with the loud music and black rooms. One wrong move was made and Biker took a bullet to the leg causing him to tumble down the stairs. Feigning death added another victim to his hit list. If it weren't the bottles of liquor exploding at the walls, it was the smashing of tables that the patrons sat at. The entire battle was also a test for Biker's aim. All three of his knives found their way into his attacker's bodies but the amount of close calls were too many. The heavy drinker's were slow staggering and the girls dancing about were practically human shields for the more cowardly soldiers. Nearly deaf and blinded by the rainbow lights, Biker twisted about around the beaming platforms at the mess he had made.

On the top floor, Biker attempted to be as stealthy as humanly possible. Outside the door of the large room, he heard the cackling of laughter in addition to the blaring electronic tunes. Sneaking into the black chamber, he hugged the sofa's trying to get closer. The carpet burned his knee's and his vest caught on the shabby rugs. He was almost to the wall when he heard a shout.

"Hey! Hold it right there!"

"You've got to be kidding me." Biker gulped.

Four fat men in similar armor walked out bearing brass and spiked knuckles each. Before any could lay a finger on Biker, he had blown holes into all of their stomachs. It was the first time that Biker had every shot a gun and the fact that it was a 12 gauge pump made him feel more powerful. He threw the gun to the side in dismay and stared at the pudgy mounds on the ground.

"Well, that's everybody-..."

"W-wait. Don't go." Coughed a weak voice from the glass.

He treaded slowly towards the source of the noise and entered a tiny dance room on the side. Laying limply on the plastic platform and covered in bruises and scratches was a young woman in black lingerie. Her light pink pony-tailed hair was tattered, her rounded earrings dangled faintly and her jade green orbs ran with tears of pain and confusion. Despite looking down at a damsel in distress, Biker stood straight in disappointment.

"Another Russian? Fantastic."

A groan escaped from the girl's candy red lips. Biker couldn't tell if it was lipstick or blood. "You aren't going to- to hurt me. Are you?"

Her accent poked Biker in the heart as he sighed. "Can you walk?"

"No. Боже, помоги мне (God, help me)." She sobbed in a foreign tongue.

Rolling his eyes, Biker took a knee to take hold of the pale ghost on the ground. As her soft gloved hand was about to take hold of his neck, the sound of footsteps were heard behind the two. Standing in the doorway, flabbergasted by the sight, was Laszlo. Biker's luck couldn't have been worse.

"What are you doing here?" The man exclaimed. "I thought you were watching the house?"

"No time to explain. Help this girl, will 'ya?" Biker pointed standing up.

"Who's watching the house? Somebody could break in." He wasn't getting an answer from the rider. "It's no matter, put her in my van and let's get out of here."

The three were soon back out in the cold. Within less than ten minutes, Biker found himself in a dirty hospital room with the woman he rescued in a bed next to him. He allowed the doctor's to touch the girl laying in the clean sheets but he refused with all his might to be touched where the bullet entered his left leg. Time passes and later that night, a short man in a white coat and covered in burn marks entered with a clipboard. Biker drifted towards the door and waited for the man to talk.

"The patient appears to be stable but she needs to stay here for awhile."

Relieved that the tests were over and that his discovery was okay, he saluted the man while zipping his vest on. "Fine by me. She's your problem now."

The man gave off a nervous tremble. "Wait. You aren't coming back to help her later?"

Biker's head bolted in his direction. "Hell no. I've got other places to be right now."

"Isn't she your girlfriend, sir?"

As fast as lightning, Biker's fist broke through the glass table by the bedside. The veins in his arm's jutted out as the blood ran down his gloved fingers. "Did you not hear me!?" He roared. "She is not my responsibility! Nor is any other Russian that gives me any shit! You hear me!?"

He moved out into the hall and stood still observing his new self-inflicted wound. The doctor behind him inched forward slightly.

"Please, sir. Let's be civil here. We can work something out."

The girl's delusional voice echoed from back in the room. "You aren't going to leave me here alone. I don't want to be lonely."

Biker growled, walked back into the room and scowled at the young woman's weak face. "Too fucking bad."

All he wanted to do now was to get out of the hospital and drive as far away as possible. He wanted to drive out of that wasteland of a city, speed across the nation and return to the desert hideout that he had retreated to prior to the blast. Moving through the bleak hallways towards the ruined parking structure, he stopped briefly at an opened door of one of the rooms. From his place in the hallway, he noticed a soft light inside, emitting a humming glow over a happy woman in bed. At her side, her smiling husband and in her arms, a sleeping newborn. The needles from earlier turned into swords that pierced into Biker's inner being. It hurt but he knew that it was too late to go back.

"Damnit…"

He knew he had to get back to Laszlo and explain what went wrong. Biker rushed out to the crumbling parking garage, threw his helmet on and jammed the key into the ignition. As he waited at a vaccant stop light on the road, he thought he heard another recognizable song. Briefly shutting down and pulling over, his ears picked up the wailing lyrics.

"You don't know how to ease my pain, you don't know! You don't know how to ease my pain." He mouthed in silence to the music.

As Biker later parked his motorcycle outside the walled house, he found himself mouthing the lyrics of Godley and Creme's finest all over.

"You don't even know how to say goodbye! You make me wanna cry!"

* * *

  **END OF ACT ONE**

* * *

 


	5. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another call sends Biker into the shadows of a place no man would wish to go alone and the secrets he manages to discover within reveals a dark operation at play.

* * *

**ACT TWO: LIBERATION**

_**5TH SCENE - BLACKOUT** _

* * *

The flickering image on the tattered screen was cut off by a sudden creak. The projector, now out of film on it's rotation, became quiet after a long period of showing. Across the stage Richard's footsteps thumped until he was at his perch again, hands on podium and eyeless slits scrawling at his congregation. In the hazy daze, the inhabitants sat silently with many still processing the series of videos that they had just finished watching. Down below, Martin Brown, an actor known as the "Pig Butcher", looked up to the stage with his flimsy hog mask in hand.

"What is this supposed to be? Some kind of autobiography film? I wish I could have acted in it."

"This looks like a novel brought together and sewn into moving picture." Evan added. "I wish I could have written it."

Pardo glared at the projector screen unfavorably. "Looks like another deranged vigilante to me. I wish I could have been the one to stop it."

"Listen to all of you fools! You only care about yourselves!" The owl on stage snapped.

Removing her swan mask, Alex cleared the loose strands of hair away from her face. "That guy sure knows how to tear through those thugs. It makes our work look like child's play." The other Fans proceeded to nod in sync.

Richard blinked. "What you are witnessing is an individual who has returned home in search for answers."

"A man seeking revenge, huh? Sounds like what I would have done when I was still alive." The Son pondered, trying his damnest not to look at his father sitting next to him. The shame of his past deeds irradiating off him glumly.

"Looks like he's got himself a friend. Surprised that he's been tolerate for that long with most of the Russians he's come across." Beard fixed his glasses and continued his sweep around the hall. The undeniable scent of postwar prejudice still hung heavy in his vocals.

The sound of a new voice broke the silence, that of Rachael Ward. The feminine actress was nearly ready to go into hysterics over the sight of Biker's vicious nature. "Is he just going to leave that woman back there on her own!? What kind of person would do that!?"

"Do not worry too much about her." Don Juan gestured on stage in a reassuring manner as a mother would to her child. "I assure you all that the two will cross paths again shortly."

The rooster turned to the foreign voice. "Yes. Know as well that this will not be the last time that blood will be split." He blinked again and rolled his fingers into a fist. His attention was rather tense on the blood stained rags of white hanging from the sides. "As a matter of fact, the bloodshed has only just begun."

After concluding his whispering conversation to his mother, Richter found himself questioning the three once more. "This same guy is getting those same calls? Even after Miami had been completely fucked over? This is nuts." He ended with a troubled tremble in his voice, still unable to accept the reality as he had done so in Hawaii.

Jake, amused by the action, tried his best to look around the heads at the pale screen, hoping the action was still showing. "I can't tell if the guy is taking pleasure to doing all that murdering."

"Just by observing some of you in the audience, I can tell that you enjoy what you're seeing." Richard proclaimed and took his time to stare at a section of the aisles with disgust in his eyeless face. "You must love to hurt other people regardless of consequence."

"I wouldn't blame him." The bald swan boldly answered. "It must be a bummer to have nothing to do in that hellhole."

Unsurprisingly, Tony followed suit. "I would have to agree with you. Seems like there's nothing to entertain ourselves with anymore."

The horse masked woman faced the lifeless projector. "This man's actions will cause a lot of stir in his footsteps. Only time will tell whether or not the fruits of his labor are genuine."

The cryptic message from the announcer's motionless mask sent another chilling vibration throughout the pews. The souls all around rose again in a slow but gradual wake, arms extended and ready to expel another cry.

"Is this the return!? The sign that we've been waiting for!?" They chanted, hundreds all as one. "Is our fall avenged by this pouring of wrath and shedding of blood!?"

A shattering wind, almost entirely supernatural, broke the glass from several of the high pointed windows. Richard's displeasure was beginning to become painstakingly visible.

"I cannot give you an answer, but for now, you must all wait a little longer for the outcome of these events."

The volley was reversed. "How much longer!? How much longer must we wait for the judgement of those who wield the swords that have slain us!?"

Pardo, in particular, was starting to show worry in his cheating eyes as a layer of perspiration formed on his already pale skin. "This is crazy. Sounds like a riot is about to begin in this place."

Like a pack of wild animals, everyone below the stage started to uncomfortably rise from their seats and anarchy started to hover over the mile long gathering. Voices turned to aggressive barking and open palms began to mold into pointing accusations. As quick as it was for everyone to get out of control, Don Juan was able to single handedly pacify them just as effectively. Arms extended outward, lifting and dropping her hands patiently. There was an instantaneous break.

"You must all have faith. The one who you have been observing has shown this, so why can't you?"

The congregation returned to their places and order was restored. Richard's next line of dialogue was delivered after another minute of dead silence.

"I can't speak for everyone here about what the future will hold. All we can do is watch. For this is his story, not yours. His deeds will be rewarded in life or death for everyone."

"My patience is growing thinner by the second. Can't he just die already!?" Rasmus nipped furiously.

The preaching hybrid refused to acknowledge the owl's outburst. Not a sound filled the chapel nor did a soul dare to exercise their voice. Instead they sat, as children in a classroom or sheep in a pasture, anticipating the next move their master would make. The wrapped bandages clasped another metal film canister and snapped it in place with a echoing  _CLINK_! The silver screen illuminated a healthy glow followed by the all familiar numbers of the countdown.

The audience waited for the next showing to begin. Entranced and engrossed by the visuals, their retina's bounced back and forth in reaction to the light. Sounds soon filled their ears and picture's in their minds. The colors of violence painted on the blank canvas and the screams of horror drowning the speakers.

* * *

**19:58**

**MARCH 1ST, 1995**

**MIAMI, FLORIDA**

* * *

Inside Laszlo's house, the older man found himself giving the disobedient rider a lecture. While there weren't any signs of theft on the property, the very fact of being lied to was enough to upset the man. Biker found himself sitting on a broken wooden chair. It was the most uncomfortable pedestal that he could be seated on and with no support for his back or arms, he resorted to a painful slouch against the wall. He was 35 years of age and yet was unable to escape from the rod made for a child.

"What were expecting me to do? Just sit here and do nothing?" Biker testified.

Laszlo grumbled, trying to not let his frustration get the best of him unlike his younger guest. "That's exactly what I expected you to do. Did you think that leaving my property empty like that was going to keep the looters away?"

"Look. I checked all around the area before I left. The place looked barren as hell. Nobody really comes around here anyways."

The rider's justification was just as shallow as his evidence. "That's no excuse to just leave like that. You have broken my trust by doing this."

"Well, I apologize." He returned defensively.

A mist of tension rose between the two men, oozing from the crevices in the floor and from the cracks in the walls. There's was nothing more unsettling than when a household was divided and it was apprent that both men knew that was true. Biker hated the fact that he was sitting in the chair being overshadowed by a man much older yet weaker than he was or at least that's what he thought it was. The only word that Biker could think of at the moment was "Disobedient". He proceeded to answer again.

"There is just nothing to do around here for three hours and those phone calls I'm getting are my only source of entertainment."

"Phone calls? From my phone?" The man's voice rapidly changed.

A grudged smirk formed over the thought that he had Laszlo beat. "You didn't know that's why I was at the club?"

"You never told me that the calls told you to go to these places."

"Yes!" Biker exclaimed immaturely. "That's what I've been trying to establish here-"

The sound of the phone ringing came from downstairs. Biker whipped the stray hair away from his right eye, exposing both of his blue pupils towards his opponent. He was looking at Laszlo with full attention while awaiting the next move. Could the father finally be outplayed by the son?

"Well, what do you know. I bet that's them."

Rising from his shameful throne, Biker slipped his way past his partner and down the stairs to answer the call. The whole trip to the phone machine was full of sharp turns and head swivels. Nobody was going to tell him what to do. He played back the left over message.

*You have one new message.* *BEEP* Hi, it's 'Adam' from Miami Power Co. We have received word that a bad outage has occurred in part of the inner district on 7th Avenue. We need you to come down here and bring back the light to the residents here. Don't forget to be discrete and use the right tools for the job. *CLICK*

As the dial tone spat out it's ear wrinkling pitch, Biker felt Laszlo's presence creeping around the corner.

"The message told me that I need to 'fix' a power outage on 7th Avenue right now." Said Biker, trying his damnedest to act as professional as he could.

A stern expression came to formation. "I recommend that you don't do that. You would be making a big mistake."

"How come? Crime?"

The downplay only intensified the expression on the older man's face.

"Worse. That address is smack dab in the middle of the Dark Zone: the most dangerous places in all of Miami. With no electricity or running water, it's the slums where all the trouble and impoverished dwell."

"As much as I don't like the sound of that, I can't really complain. There could be something I could do there."

"Please don't, my friend. You have no idea what you're getting into."

Biker walked past and headed for the door. "Sorry, I've got some business to get done. I promise that you will see me again."

Out of the house he went, only to nearly trample over the paper on the step. Briefly pausing, the man grasped the now soggy paper in his hands. He weaved his fingers through the knots and unveiled the print in the roll.

* * *

3/1/95 - Reports are coming in about the South Beach Strip Club shootout. Most of South Miami has been put on high alert due to the mass killings. Indications show that a madman is responsible for the killings against local agents.

* * *

A pounding tremor rattled Biker's sweat stained temples. It was already bad enough that he was having a tough time being roommates with Laszlo but now knowing that his deeds were being watched by providence made his situation even worse. He was most wanted and it hasn't even been a full month since his homecoming. He threw the paper aside and stomped down the pavement to his iron horse.

It was just as he was about to arrive at his destination that Biker began to wonder if the older man was right the whole time. The heavy air was what first gave him the chills followed by the lack of people wandering the streets. The sky-scraping monuments of brick and rubble began to fade out as the ruins of lesser buildings crowded their place. The whole landscape grew paler and more twisted until the man-made lights that once hung over the populated roads became absent. As 7th Avenue approached, so did the underworld that was the Dark Zone. The rider parked his vehicle out of sight and packed trash bags over it for good measure.

The blue helmet rider was stuck. The road in front was barricaded by mounds of debris with no way that a motorcycle could conquer it's steepness. To the right, a long tunnel worked it's way under the road ahead, lit by the blaze of a single fire barrel. Ahead was a bent over figure spewing forth a guttering barrage of a centuries old hymn, nursing off the neck of a bottle. Biker stepped over the lost soul and continued onward, paying no attention to the poor chap from behind. Another individual was warming by a blaze and seeing his hands glowing red in the freeze, Biker invited himself over as well.

"Hey, could you tell me how I can get to 7th Avenue from here?" Biker asked.

"Why do ya wanna go there for?" The crumbling quake of a voice replied.

"Just need to handle some important business." Biker said back.

The Bum huffed. "Good luck doin' that. The main way in is guarded by a bunch of those brutes."

"What brutes?"

"Them boys in hulky armor and big guns. They always cause us trouble and kill our own that get in their way."

The conversation brought out a series of faces from the dark windows. Biker took note of all the people that were watching. Tattered and tired, the men weary, the women sick, the children deprived. There must of been at least twenty pairs of eyes watching from the roofs above, listening to the voice of the new fellow in those parts marked by the color of his blue helmet and the skull on his vest. His singular eye drifted to an open passage.

"Thanks for the heads up. I'm going to see what I can do."

"You're gonna die in there, man." The Bum bellowed. "You should just wait here for them to leave."

The stench of the mans lack of decency motivated Biker to flee even more. The staring gazes and the chill fueled it.

"I'd rather keep going. It's cold just standing around out here."

"Around here, we are used to this sort of thing. The brutes would probably take all our matches away too. They claim to be the peacekeepers and promise that they will help us however they can but all I've seen is force and a lot of it."

The works of the former mission flashed before Biker's cracked glass all over again.  _Those_  brutes.

"Some peacekeepers. You ever want power around here?"

The question stirred up those above him. He could hear their torn lips speak and their fingers crunch together in their dry hands. The residents of the Dark Zone were whispering to themselves as Biker lit a match for a joint, briefly allowing the light to mirror off his visible orb in his face. The faces were hypnotized by the sight as if they were staring at a spirit, who's purpose was to light them the way to a different life. His back was etched with a human skull; it was a sign that meant a thousand words. Now the reaper began to pave his way only turning back now at the last words the man behind had to offer.

"It would be a miracle but I know that it won't happen. Nothing will happen."

Biker frowned and with a sigh turned and continues down the alleyway. The first signs of danger were marked by the clatter of metal and the bodies of two dead men armed with handguns. Since it's been only a few hours since Biker's first ever shooting spree, the thrill of firing a 9mm was still pumping. His happy welcome was interrupted by a shout. Within seconds, two armored personnel laid scattered on the ground. The sound attracted running coming from up the alley and soon bullets were whizzing all around.

Into the vacant buildings the combat ensued. It was a time for trying out new toys and Biker found himself playing like he did back in his youth. Shock Batons from the fallen cooked it's victims into crispy critters while firearms of unknown origins filled the sentries full of lead. Scattering, dispersing, hiding and dodging. The repetition reminded Biker of the mission he was on, which lead him to the back of a guard with a bloody mark fused into his spinal cord. A long slender electric cord ran through the back door of an apartment complex.

"This must be where you're hiding."

The place was infested by more armed personnel and as Biker crawled like a rat in the shadows, the cries of the young rang within the corridor rooms. A raid was in progress but not for criminals. The injustice was swept from the rooms as Biker's carnage charged down the halls. The same cycle repeated and more men died, nothing new at all. At last he reached the top floor and after creating a nice hole in the head of a soldier holding the door, he entered into an empty room. Or at least, he thought it was empty.

A sick green tint bathed the chamber in a limey sea. On the tables was a map of the city marked in red and littered with notes of all the locations these teams were attacking. The surprising sounds of radios were buzzing in their caged boxes. An outpost of some sort. On a far wall was a banner with a symbol in it's middle. A circle with three lines painted red as the blood on Biker's body. Book in hand, the rider's voice spiked at the sight of a word on the page. He looked up, then down. Up, then down, just to confirm his own sight.

"50 Blessings!? That must be who's behind all of this! I had a feeling that those bastards were behind all this crap all along!"

A smile came to his face; it was the first in a very long time. The discovery of a 50 Blessings Radio Outpost was all Biker needed to begin rummaging the shelves for clues. Soon, he was speedily hurrying back to his bike with a pack on his back containing all the juicy content he needed. The only thing that made him hesitate were the residents of the dumpy slums, who peeked out their sleepy windows at the nutcase starting his machine. The last thing that Biker remembered in the Dark Zone that night was the unidentifiable figure of a woman running after him.

"I'm going to have nightmares about that." he thought looking back at the road.

Lit by the clumsy flames of the world around him, Biker pulled up back at Laszlo's home. Opening the door, he found the older man pacing impatiently in the living room, stopped by the appearance of blood all over Biker's front. His face was bright under his masquerading gear.

"…So, you've come back."

"You probably won't believe the story I've got to tell." Biker eagerly threw the bag on one of the couches.

"I wouldn't blame you." Laszlo said looking at the pack. "Considering how crazy it is, I'm surprised that you came out with your arms and legs still attached to your body."

"Have you ever heard of these sons of bitches called 50 Blessings before!?" The young rider exploded. "I remember signing up for their patriotic bullshit several years ago! Now, it's all coming back to me!"

No longer was Biker the only one with a face of relief.

"Hope you're in for a treat. These monsters have been ruling over Miami for years. Every few months seems to get worse. They keep spilling their national bullshit on us people and expect us to believe every word that they say. It's not even about the American people anymore. It's just all this witch hunt stuff now..."

A common enemy had made itself present inside the house. At this point in time, an alliance was taking shape as both men found themselves searching through the files from the stolen pack.

"Guess we've got some work to do then."


End file.
